McBarty repeatedly looked up the dusty government trail leading north from the station with an expression of anxiety.
“Well,” he said, “allow me to congratulate the Hon. John Roberts of Nebraska!” He smiled gravely as he shook the hand of his rival. “All I regret now,” he added, “is that I drank that soup!”
“Thanks!” replied the Judge. “It really seems a shame, however, that one should go to Congress at the hands of these savages, eh?”
“Yes,” said McBarty, taking a long gaze up the trail; “it is a shame, to be sure!”
At that moment a little farce was being enacted a mile up the road. Within the covering of a wild plum thicket at the side of the trail a saddled and bridled horse was lariated to a stake, and a man sat near by upon a rock, repeatedly tapping the horse on the flanks as it galloped about in a circle.
“Lather up there!” cried the man, as he nipped the horse with the whiplash; “lather up there!” And the horse dashed about the circle until its flanks were dripping and its mouth was white with foam.
At length the man took out his watch, saw that it was 5:30 o’clock, and untying the lariat, he mounted and put the spurs to his already jaded animal, dashing at a furious pace down the dusty old trail toward the Agency.
A few moments later McBarty and the Judge caught sight of a furious rider dashing toward them in a cloud of dust.
“Who do you suppose that can be riding so fast?” said the Judge.
“Oh,” said McBarty, smiling broadly, “that, Judge, is merely my election coming up at the gallop!”